In spite of all, as brother judging brother,
Your fate is most inexplicable to me?
And should you perish without recompense
And satisfaction yet-too hastily

I have relied on love: you may have sinned,

But you have loved. As a mere human matter

As I would have God deal with fragile men

In the end-I say that you will triumph yet!

Paracelsus. Have you felt sorrow, Festus?—'t is because You love me. Sorrow, and sweet Michal yours! Well thought on: never let her know this last Dull winding-up of all: these miscreants dared Insult me-me she loved :-so, grieve her not! Festus. Your ill success can little grieve her now. Paracelsus. Michal is dead! pray Christ we do not

craze !

Festus. Aureole, dear Aureole, look not on me thus ! Fool, fool! this is the heart grown sorrow-proof

I cannot bear those eyes.

Paracelsus.

Festus. "T is scarce a month.

Paracelsus.

Nay, really dead?

Stone dead!-then you have laid her

Among the flowers ere this. Now, do you know,

I can reveal a secret which shall comfort

Even you.
To cheat the grave; but a far better secret.

I have no julep, as men think,

Know, then, you did not ill to trust your love

To the cold earth: I have thought much of it:
For I believe we do not wholly die.

Festus. Aureole !

Paracelsus. Nay, do not laugh; there is a reason

For what I say: I think the soul can never

Taste death. I am, just now, as you may see,

Very unfit to put so strange a thought

In an intelligible dress of words;

But take it as my trust, she is not dead.

Festus. But not on this account alone? you surely, -Aureole, you have believed this all along?

Paracelsus. And Michal sleeps among the roots and dews,

While I am moved at Basil, and full of schemes

For Nuremberg, and hoping and despairing,

As though it mattered how the farce plays out,
So it be quickly played. Away, away!

Have your will, rabble! while we fight the prize,
Troop you in safety to the snug back-seats

And leave a clear arena for the brave

About to perish for your sport !-Behold!

PART V.

PARACELSUS ATTAINS.

SCENE.-Salzburg; a cell in the Hospital of St. Sebastian.

1541.

FESTUS, PARACELSUS.

Festus. No change! The weary night is well-nigh

spent,

The lamp burns low, and through the casement-bars
Grey morning glimmers feebly: yet no change!
Another night, and still no sigh has stirred
That fallen discoloured mouth, no pang relit
Those fixed eyes, quenched by the decaying body,
Like torch-flame choked in dust. While all beside
Was breaking, to the last they held out bright,
As a stronghold where life intrenched itself;
But they are dead now-very blind and dead :
He will drowse into death without a groan.

My Aureole-my forgotten, ruined Aureole !

The days are gone, are gone! How grand thou wast!

And now not one of those who struck thee down-
Poor glorious spirit-concerns him even to stay
And satisfy himself his little hand

Could turn God's image to a livid thing.

Another night, and yet no change! 'T is much
That I should sit by him, and bathe his brow,
And chafe his hands; 't is much: but he will sure
Know me, and look on me, and speak to me
Once more-but only once! His hollow cheek
Looked all night long as though a creeping laugh

At his own state were just about to break

From the dying man: my brain swam, my throat swelled,
And yet I could not turn away.
In truth,

They told me how, when first brought here, he seemed

Resolved to live, to lose no faculty;

Thus striving to keep up his shattered strength,
Until they bore him to this stifling cell :

When straight his features fell, an hour made white
The flushed face, and relaxed the quivering limb,
Only the eye remained intense awhile

As though it recognized the tomb-like place,
And then he lay as here he lies.

Ay, here!

Here is earth's noblest, nobly garlanded

Her bravest champion with his well-won prize

Her best achievement, her sublime amends
For countless generations fleeting fast
And followed by no trace ;-the creature-god
She instances when angels would dispute

The title of her brood to rank with them.
Angels, this is our angel! Those bright forms
We clothe with purple, crown and call to thrones,
Are human, but not his; those are but men
Whom other men press round and kneel before;
Those palaces are dwelt in by mankind;

Higher provision is for him you seek

Amid our pomps and glories: see it here!
Behold earth's paragon! Now, raise thee, clay!

God! Thou art love! I build my faith on that
Even as I watch beside thy tortured child
Unconscious whose hot tears fall fast by him,

So doth thy right hand guide us through the world
Wherein we stumble.

How has he sinned?

God! what shall we say?

How else should he have done?

Surely he sought thy praise-thy praise, for all

He might be busied by the task so much

As half forget awhile its proper end.

Dost thou well, Lord? Thou canst not but prefer

That I should range myself upon his side

How could he stop at every step to set